Christmas 2013 in Forks, WA
by ohsoloverly
Summary: Peeta has his first Christmas as a Cullen. [Obviously, I do not own The Hunger Games, The Twilight Saga, nor any of the characters in either series. There are no canon Twilight characters in this, this is Twilight universe with Hunger Games characters. Have a look at my other work, Closer, for context/info, as this is a flashback for it!]


The scent of oil paint permeates the room, the cold air stagnant and unfiltered. Across the many feet and chilled, snow-covered soil, the voice carries, penetrating the walls and making me roll my eyes.

"No, no, no! We cannot have the star facing west and east! It is the North Star- Finnick, stop that! I said **stop** that!"

I can practically see the ringing hands of poor Effie as she tries to convince the 'children' not to mess around with her Christmas tree layout. It's a first, for most of them, in ages. At least, with a property of this size.

Back in Saskatchewan, they'd apparently feigned being Jewish.

I'm still not sure how they pulled that off, considering I had to explain what 'kosher' means to Madge only a few weeks ago.

Unless Finnick had been teasing me, which is possible, but I wouldn't put it past them.

My family is nothing, if not convincing.

"Johanna! Take those out of your shirt, immediately! The manners, manners! Good gracious!"

I try to drown my own laughter, but some still escapes; I return to the painting, trying to place all of my focus upon the wintry landscape.

The former stylist's screeching is already beginning. Jo's snark, Madge's indifference, and Finnick's amusement hardly serve to alleviate their 'mother's' frustration. I honestly don't understand how they have managed to stay together the past ten and a half months, never mind one hundred years. The only person Johanna hasn't threatened to skin, in all the months I've known them, has been Madge, but even the two of them have their moments.

Madge shoved Johanna off of the second floor's porch only four months ago.

Funny, I would think the girl who knew Vikings first-hand would have gathered a little more patience over the years. Johanna does, though, have that unique skill of getting under practically everyone's skin. The only one I've yet to see her aggravate, at some point or another, is the man who brought me into this mess of a family.

Doctor Aurelius has a shift at the hospital, until late this evening. Despite the fact that none of us are actually going to eat, the Christmas roast is currently cooking. Despite all of us being far too old (never mind, having far too much in terms of possessions) to be entertained by gift-exchanges, Effie has squawked us all into submission.

Sans me.

Well, mostly. They've been procrastinating, or bickering over all of their tasks, whereas my Effie-assignments were completed days ago. I had decorated the home's exterior. Finnick had 'helped' me, with the project. Thankfully, we don't need to worry, where my bronze-headed 'cousin' is concerned, otherwise he might have been killed by the number of times he electrocuted himself. Mostly, though, the charming arrangement currently twinkling against the gleaming drifts was my personal handiwork.

I had completed a painted Rudolph, one which currently stands post at our driveway's end. I had written 'Welcome' on it, when, the reality is, no one is going to be 'welcoming' themselves here except us sorry saps.

The thoughts come, unbidden, and my hand clasps around the paintbrush until I hear a fatal crack up the handle.

I hear the arguments inside rising, Johanna now screaming profanities while Effie attempts chastising her. It builds a tension in an airless chest, nostrils flaring as I try to hold the instinct at bay.

Red marks my vision, the surroundings slowly blurring until a face appears, covered in slick crimson and glittering at the edges. I try to shake it off, tell myself to stay still, to let it pass on its own. But the screams and the threat crunching snow like bones comes at me like a tidal wave.

It isn't until the snap of a neck and the sweet taste of blood floods my lips that I look down, see the deer prone in my blood-drenched hands. The gushing artery has slowed, to a trickle.

I don't know how long I've been standing here.

It feels like a second. It must have been longer.

The moment sends a chill down an already-frozen body.

A hand on my shoulder and I turn, lash out and hear the snap of bark against rock. A tanned, bronze-haired mop of boy stands, eyes alert, visibly concerned.

Finnick.

"Peeta," he says, voice calm, and low.

But the images in his head floor my own, and I see through his eyes for a moment, see myself crashing through the windows of the cottage, taking off after the frightened prey.

And I see the madness in my own eyes, now, the dilated pupils, bronze in tiny halos but black in the center.

He holds out his hands to me, as if surrendering, and guilt plummets like a anvil as I try to shake it off, get the blood off, rub it into the snow.

"Peet," he repeats, voice too kind when he knows just as well as I do the problem that I am.

The threat.

"What if it were a person," I state, not ask. My throat would be raw, I'm sure, if I weren't like this. If I hadn't been... changed, this way.

If they hadn't slit the throats of everyone in my family, only getting to exert a brutal blow rather than a fatal one.

The fluid still coats my lips, lingers in my mouth like melted chocolate would for a small child.

"It was an accident," Finnick says, too calm compared to the churning images and words and thoughts.

Annie, he is thinking.

Always Annie.

(Always images of Annie that pale my own memories of violence; caution me against asking him anything regarding her.)

"It's so hard to tell," I admit. I half-wish the emotion could rage my voice, the way it would've only this time last year; that I could scream without it being an effort. They have so much more experience, I have to remind myself.

But the monster lurking in my head betrays me at every corner, even in this.

Even in containing what should be furious self-reproach.

"I can't tell, when I start seeing what happened, if it's here or if it's my mind-" I break off, shaking my head.

"So, ask," he murmurs.

I finally dare to look up, to look behind him. I can hear the rest of the family in the house. Their quiet murmurs, despite being so many yards away, still carry, just just with less distinction.

"Ask who?" the bitterness peeks out, unbidden, and I try to quell it, before running my hands across my lips, trying to scrape away the now-drying flecks.

"Us," he says. A hand makes its way to my shoulder, gives it a tight enough squeeze where, if things were different, my bones might shriek in agony. There's a slight creak, stone hands against stone bones, but nothing more.

Nothing less, either.

"We're family, Peet," he watches me, waiting to catch my eye. He gives a nod, before pulling me so that his arm can collapse around my shoulders. He half-tugs me away from the bloody kill, and begins to whistle as we make our way back to the house, through the forest. "We've done this, you know."

"Done this," I say, flatly, because I know they've all done this. I can read their minds, I would think he'd realize what that means. Because I've seen each of their transitions, how painful it was for each of them. That doesn't make this easier.

Nor does realizing that I still have yet to get approval from the Capitol; to get approval from the rulers of everyone of our kind.

They have to approve anyone who joins Aurelius' little family. And I'm walking a fine line, between threat and simpleton.

Finnick's whistling becomes more defined, the closer we get to home. He's doing the tune of God Rest Ye, Merry Gentlemen.

When we get closer to the cottage, Finnick pauses, nods at my amateur studio.

"What d'you say, we wait a few weeks for you to start working on it, again?"

Painting is one of the few things, which has managed to take my mind off of the bloodlust- but, apparently, it's not effectual enough. Apparently, I'm too much of a monster for that.

But I don't want to acknowledge my own thoughts, so I shrug, following Finnick back into the house.

Madge is at the piano, practicing a few jingles. She gives a reserved smile, before looking back to her music.

The home is far more decorated than when I had left, hours ago, for the cottage. Red and gold ribbon line the stairway bannister, and drape along the moldings. The Christmas tree, a giant evergreen, fills the home with the pungent, natural scent. I breathe in, the scent combining with Johanna's apparently-burning roast, and flaming logs under the mantle.

Finnick claps my back, before going to the kitchen. He laughs loudly at Johanna's slew of profanities, barely avoiding her harsh punches. He's supposed to be responsible for the eggnog.

God help us all, he hadn't even known what ingredients to use.

Luckily, we don't actually consume the majority of this. The roast we're going to be carving up and bringing to the shelter, but I fear for anyone who's imbibing Finnick's soon-to-come concoction, and isn't already deceased.

Effie frets, making the slightest of adjustments to the glimmering tinsel on the large tree. She comes over to where I'm standing, throwing her arms around me tightly, kissing my cheek.

"Oh, Peeta," she says, as we listen to Aurelius' car pulling into the driveway up front.

She sighs, swaying in time to Madge's rendition of Auld Lang Syne, and clearly ignoring Finnick and Johanna's slowly-escalating banter about who's the worst cook.

"Isn't Christmas just the loveliest?"

"Sure, Effie," I try, laughing as Aurelius comes in, with Santa hats for everyone.

The loveliest.

* * *

(basically, the Cullens are very dysfunctional)

thankyouforreadinggg! comments/crit are always appreciated! hopefully if you're celebrating you have a happymerry christmas and if not, have a healthy and happy next few days and nights! 3


End file.
